Page 5
My pulse hammers in my temples, hard enough to feel in my teeth. Around me, tiny voices rise and fall as the classroom carries on without me.
I swallow. That could be just a shadow, a parent walking by, or a simple trick of the light. I readjust the paint-splotched apron clinging to my hips and dust off the soaked hem.
Everything’s okay. No one’s here to hurt me.
I keep yanking my skirt down like that’ll calm me. It won’t. Regardless, my hands continue moving, tugging, and smoothing on repeat.
“Miss Martinelli! Tommy’s drinking paint water again!” Lily’s hand shoots up, her blond ponytail swinging as she points across the room. Well, there goes my last shred of hope for a normal day.
A head swivels. Tommy, the pint-sized chaos goblin himself, sloshes the plastic cup like a champagne toast, his eyes wide with pride.
“Tommy, sweetie, what’d we say about only sipping things that come from the kitchen?”
He shrugs and throws the cup.
Like some psychedelic missile, paint water soars through the air before splattering everywhere. The floor, my shoes, and the skirt I should’ve retired ages ago.
The kids live for this drama.
Anton claps his paint-covered hands together, leaving purple smudges on his palms while the rest of the students cackle and watch. I’m on my knees in a blink, snatching paper towels like I’m prepping for battlefield surgery, sopping up watercolor carnage, and grinning like a madwoman. A half-hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat. My chest feels lighter than it has in days. Honestly, who knew getting soaked in art class could be so…weirdly thrilling?
“Tommy.” I pair my sweet voice with a stern face. “If you wanna charge into battle as the Rainbow Avenger, maybe keep the explosions off the rug next time. Okay?”
His face crumples, his eyes going shiny with unshed tears. So, of course, my heart caves. Since I’m a sucker for my guilt-tripping kids, I open my arms like I’m a lifeboat.
His nose brushes my hair as he hugs me back. “You smell like markers and flowers.”
Just another day at the office.
In under a minute, I have all the kids wrangled. Like warm, loud, squirmy puppies at nap hour, tiny bodies collapse around me for Storytime. One girl tugs my hair gently. Another tucks her head against my side, her cheek gooey with glue and Graham crackers. Their trust is a kind of holiness, a purity no world like mine deserves.
My heart aches.
That bone-deep instinct to protect doesn’t come from sainthood but from hiding under beds while grown men argued over blood money, from watching my mother break in the face of all the lies and self-medicate after learning too early that “safe” is a myth.
This? This chaos of sticky fingers and snack-time tantrums? It’s salvation disguised in pigtails.
Lunchtime finally breaks over the kids like a receding tide, and off they go.
I rest a hand against my chest, willing my heart to slow. The leftover energy in the classroom brings a smile to my face as I walk over to a window and bask in the sunshine pouring in.
At the squeak of the door, I pivot.
Jacob.
Of course.
Dark suit, tailored like sin save for the tie, which remains crooked as always. Badge clipped to his belt like a trophy. His blond hair is shorter than I remember, cropped close at the sides. Those blue eyes, the kind that used to offer that feeling of safety, now just cause my stomach to churn with heartbreak. The faintest scent of aftershave and gunpowder reaches me. Or maybe that’s just how memories smell.
My breath catches. I force my shoulders back and my chin up.
His voice slices through the quiet. “Hey, Soph.”
I cross my arms and lean against the windowsill. “Jacob, this is unexpected.”
He flashes his cop smile. “Was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d check in.”
Liar. Jacob never just drops by to check in anywhere. In the year since I broke up with him, he’s never visited, which means he must have a reason. I wonder how quickly I can get the truth out.
